


Echoes

by BJackson



Category: Quantum Leap
Genre: Angst, Drama, Gen, Genital Mutilation, Mutilation, Nails, Torture, just a heads up pally pals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-06-10 05:04:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6940948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BJackson/pseuds/BJackson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sam is held captive and tortured, it's up to Al to help him come to terms with the trauma.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

    Because Sam had no idea what he would encounter any time he leaped into a new situation, he'd set for himself two simple rules: don't make too much of a fool of himself, and try not to die. Oftentimes, one of these rules was immediately put to the test; on very special leaps, he was confronted with both. Like now, for instance. Once his vision cleared and his hold on his body solidified, he found himself violently thrust upward and his body yanked back in reaction. Holding on for dear life, he yelped and frantically tried to stay upright.  
  
    He was on a horse. A wild horse! The furious creature thrashed left, right, up, down, and several directions all at once. Once again, God, Time, Fate, or Whatever decided to leap him in during the most inopportune and potentially dangerous moment, because apparently GTFW needed a good laugh at his expense every once in a while. The horse bucked again, yanking his torso and legs in opposite directions. If Sam were to be thrown, he realized how easily he'd be trampled to death. But as the movements became more frenzied, he found it increasingly difficult to hold on. His grip finally giving out, he was tossed to the ground. Hoping he wasn't about to have a hoof embedded into his face, he rolled out of the way, shielded his head, and let out a shriek.   
  
    And was met with uproarious laughter.   
  
    He peeked between his arms. A crowd was watching him, not from a ranch fence like he was expecting, but from inside a building. A restaurant? What was he doing horse riding in a restaurant? Pink and yellow lights lit laughing faces from the ceiling. And next to Sam, the horrible beast that had thrown him towered silently above: a mechanical bull.   
  
    Sighing with annoyance, he fell back onto the mat underneath him. "Oh boy."  
  
\-------  
  
      "That was _some_ riding, Dorothy!" a voice called to Sam as he stumbled off of the stage amidst the hoots and hollers of the crowd. Dorothy? Great, another humiliation. He was a woman again! Though he'd never guess from the clothing. In fact, it was the most comfortable he could recall being dressed as a woman: a white button-up shirt with small details in blue thread, jeans, and--the cherry on top--a pair of comfortable boots. No heels. He supposed he should thank GTFW for giving him a break on that front. There would be no pinching of his toes or twisting of his ankles in those horrible torture devices _this_ leap.   
  
    A hand clapped gently onto his shoulder and he saw the girl who had spoken to him. She couldn't be older than 18. Dressed in a similar getup of jeans and a checkered shirt, the Native American girl wore her hair in big, teased curls. Her cheeks dimpled as her face lit up with amusement. "I can't believe you did that!"  
  
    Rubbing the back of his neck nervously, Sam glanced behind him as the next rider flailed and shouted with enthusiasm. "Heh...me neither."   
  
    "Hey. I'm proud of you." She received a sheepish, lopsided grin in response, and she jerked her head toward the tables. "Now let's eat!"   
  
    Sam managed not to trip up during dinner, although finding common ground with a teenage girl was a little bit out of his element. Like countless leaps before this, however, he found that if he let the other person carry most of the conversation, he was able to look less conspicuous. Not that it was easy to carry on much of a conversation over the loud music, dancing, and the raucous crowd gathered around the mechanical bull.   
  
    From the way the other patrons dressed and the music playing over the speakers, Sam guessed he'd landed in the late 70s or early 80s. And judging from the hats and belt buckles, it was somewhere in the southwest. Or maybe that was just the theme of this restaurant. The girl he was eating with appeared to be a close friend, which meant that (much to his disappointment) Sam was most certainly a teenager as well. Fantastic. As far as he was concerned, teenage girls were unpredictable, emotional rollercoasters. It was not a world he cared to be immersed in.   
  
    "I just wanna thank you for coming out here, girl," his companion beamed over the noise, "You never go anywhere." Sam nodded over his drink, carefully neutral. She crinkled her forehead anxiously. "I mean that in a good way. I just...I know it was a big deal for you. Especially getting your mom to let you borrow her car." Her cheeks dimpled happily. "I'm just glad I get to spend my birthday with my best friend!"   
  
    "Oh, happy birthday," Sam congratulated, surprised, without thinking. The girl seemed to take it as a joke and snorted. Nervously, Sam retreated into his glass of soda again.   
  
    So Dorothy was shy, which worked out for him since he didn't need to be a huge conversationalist. Maybe he was here to boost her confidence? Nah, it was never that simple. Perhaps the leap had to do with his new best friend. He hadn't picked up on anything worrying in the conversation so far. Right now, he needed some guidance from...  
  
    His eyes glided toward the dance floor, and he hid a smirk behind his hand. Unseen by the crowd, a colorfully dressed hologram was dancing to the honkytonk music and having a grand old time. There was no mistaking who it was; his neon vest and light-up green tie made him stick out like a sore thumb. Good lord, his _shoes_ had LED lights in them. As he bopped to the tune, he fell into step with a woman in cut-off shorts and shamelessly let his eyes drop downward.   
  
    Lowering his chin, Sam gave Al a scolding look. When their eyes met, Al grinned cheekily and motioned toward the exit with his cigar.   
  
    "I'm gonna get some fresh air for a bit," Sam told the girl across from him, gathering up his purse, "Do you mind?" She shook her head. "Thanks. Be right back."   
  
\-------  
  
    Even though night had fallen, the heat still hung in the air outside. When Sam exited the establishment, he was surprised at how small the area seemed. A few smatterings of buildings dotted the desert around him, but most of the life seemed to be happening at this restaurant. He'd expected to be in a busier city from the crowd; now he just assumed this was the only place in town.  
  
    After a short wait, Al phased through the wall behind him. He kept his gaze cheerily toward the wall, as if he had x-ray vision and could see right through it. "Hoohoo, that's some party in there, Sam. Did you ride the mechanical bull yet?"  
  
    Sam's eyes rolled skyward.   
  
    " _Urban Cowboy_!" Al shouted enthusiastically, either ignoring or not noticing his reaction, "Those things were all the rage after that movie came out, they got real popular around this time. It's a wild ride, Sam, you gotta try it."   
  
    "I'm familiar with it," Sam grumbled, subconsciously rubbing his sore back end.  
  
    Al sniffed and wiped his nose, shoving his hand into his pants to fetch the handlink. "I would've gotten here sooner, but we had a little difficulty finding you. Whoever you leaped into, she completely shut down when she arrived in the Waiting Room. We managed to get the time and place out of her, but after that she curled into a ball and clammed up on us."   
  
    Sam frowned and took a concerned step forward. "Is she okay?"   
  
    "Oh yeah, this happens all the time," Al shrugged off casually, "People react to the leaping process differently. Sometimes they close up; sometimes they're real chatterboxes. Point is, we don't know who you are, so we can't exactly tell you why you're here." He quirked an eyebrow and waited.  
  
    "Oh. Yeah." Sam saw what he was getting at and opened up his purse, taking out his wallet and locating Dorothy's ID. Until just now, it didn't occur to him that he had no idea what he looked like, so he inspected the small picture of his host. Dorothy had thin lips and a face dotted with freckles; she wore her blonde hair long and straight, pinned back out of her face. "Her name is Dorothy..." He brought the card closer to read the small print. "...Roland. Born February 10th, 1964." He squinted thoughtfully. "That'd make this what, 1982?"   
  
    Al finished relaying the information to Ziggy via the handlink and shook his head. "Uh, no, but close. It's 1981. August 8th, to be exact." He grinned. "Happy birthday, Sam." Happy birthday to Sam and...whoever his friend was.   
  
    "1981, that means I'm 17," Sam concluded, running his hand through his hair. Then he took on a fatherly tone. "What are two teenage girls doing out on their own so late?"   
  
    "Aren't we Miles Davis? It's 8 o'clock, Sam." Al gave a chagrined Sam a look telling him he was hopeless. Maybe he was being a little overprotective, he admitted privately to himself. Al waved his concerns away as he surveyed the desert. "Besides, I bet their parents aren't too worried since everybody knows everybody here. This is the kind of town that keeps their doors unlocked; little place called Terrell County in Texas." He sucked on his cigar nostalgically. "Did I ever tell you I had thing with a girl from the Lone Star State once?"   
  
    "Al..."   
  
    "And, Sam, it's true what they say: _everything's_ bigger in Texas." He lowered his eyelids and smirked. Sam simply gave him an annoyed look. The handlink chirped and the hologram lifted it to read Ziggy's message.   
  
    As usual, Sam was in no mood for Al's stories. He threw his head back and shot his irritation to the stars. "Al, the only girls I want you to tell me about right now are Dorothy Roland and her friend inside. I don't wanna hear about whoever you dated, or had a fling with, or played poker with, or whatever euphemism you're--" He noticed the Italian throttling the handlink and frowned. "What is it?"   
  
    Tightening his face with frustration, Al gave the rainbow block a good smack. "What is this you're givin' me, Ziggy?" he asked the computer in confusion. His head perked up for the response, unheard by Sam's ears. "Obviously you have something mixed up in your microprocessors, because we have her sittin' in the Waiting Room." The handlink shrieked and his face twisted in disgust. "Don't you use that language with me, you piece a'--"  
  
    "Al, what is she saying?"   
  
    Al took a calming breath. "She's saying Dorothy Roland doesn't exist."  
  
    "How can she say she doesn't exist when I _am_ Dorothy Roland?"  
  
    "Exactly! But she says there are no records of a Dorothy Roland living in Terrell County in 1981." Al sighed in exasperation and hit the handlink again. "Lemme get this straightened out." A few button punches, and the Imaging Chamber door slid up. "Ziggy!" He disappeared and the door clunked shut.   
  
\-------  
  
    In a stroke of luck that made things a little easier, someone had stopped to wish Sam's friend a happy birthday and he'd learned her name was Francine. He still had no idea what he was here for and Ziggy was apparently under the impression he didn't exist, but it was a start.   
  
    Francine was worried about a boy she liked in their class; Sam took note in case the leap had to do with him. Personally, he thought she should be focused on school more than the boy, but he didn't want to influence the leap until Al came back with his objective. Things had gone sideways on more than one leap thanks to him jumping to premature conclusions, not the least of which was killing Al on one occasion.   
  
    By the time 9:30 rolled around, Francine was sliding out of the booth. "Sorry, Dorothy, I gotta get going. I promised Mom I'd be home by 10."  
  
    Quickly and a bit awkwardly, Sam got to his feet too. "You want me to walk you back?"   
  
    She snorted. "I'm just down the block."   
  
    "It wouldn't be too much trouble. You can never be too careful, you know."  
  
    "Uh-huh," Francine responded with a laugh, "Hey, you'd better be heading back too; you've got an hour-long drive." Wow. Did Dorothy really live that far away? "You don't want your mom freaking out, do you?"   
  
    "Yeah, I guess not. Are you sure you don't want me to walk with you?" Sam tried again. She was awfully young.   
  
    "I'm sure. Don't worry so much all the time!" She was already headed for the door. "See you soon!" With a wave, she was gone.   
  
    She was probably going to be fine, Sam assured himself. A block wasn't so far away. An hour, however, was, so he figured he'd better get gone too. Finding a map stowed away in the glove compartment, Sam took Dorothy's mother's car out onto the road.   
  
\-------  
  
    The night was empty and quiet. As Sam took in the blanket of stars up above, he found a certain peace in the drive. Window rolled down, arm propped halfway out, he allowed the desert air to dance across his skin. It felt...familiar. He was reminded of late drives home from charity dinners, his suit smelling of cigars mixed with perfume. Driving to a hole in the ground filled with people he loved, in a luminescent blue mountain. Home.   
  
    The radio played softly. His patchwork brain brought him more fuzzy memories, and he tried to pull them to the surface and sharpen them. He smiled with each new victory.   
  
    "There's nothing like a long desert drive." Sam glanced beside him. Al was standing through the roof, swaying to the tune on the radio with his eyes contentedly closed. "Nothing but you and the road, feelin' the breeze in your hair..."   
  
    "You can't feel the breeze; you're a hologram," Sam teased good-naturedly. Disregarding Sam's comment, Al made a show of taking in a deep breath, really getting a good whiff. "Did you figure out what was wrong with Ziggy?"   
  
    "Nope. Nada, zip, zero, zilch." Plinking his index finger onto the handlink, Al's image sunk down to the passenger's seat. "We're workin' on it. In the meantime, you should go to class, talk to Dorothy's friends, keep goin' as normal. Y'know," he leaned forward with a grin and sang (badly), "keep them doggies rollin'..."  
  
    "Rawhide!" Sam finished enthusiastically, indulging his friend. There was a comforting familiarity to this too.   
  
    Al chuckled and blew out a stream of smoke, considering the landscape for a moment. Sam could feel another story coming on before the words left his lips. "You know, there was a bar in Texas I visited once; it was called Hopscotch Willy's."   
  
    "Hopscotch Willy's?"   
  
    "Yep, because that was what they called the owner. He, uh, had a peg leg."   
  
    Sam chuckled deeply and shook his head. "You're such a liar, Al."   
  
    "No, this is true!" Al loudly insisted, waving his cigar, "Wanna know how he lost it?"  
  
    "Oh, do tell."   
  
    "He _lost_ it," Al talked over him, "after he got blitzed and decided to go cow tipping."  
  
    "Cow tipping."  
  
    "And he had the misfortune of picking out a cow named Bessie--she was _massive_ \--" He spread his arms out widely to demonstrate. "--and when she went down--SPLAT!" He clapped his hands together and left Sam to connect the dots.   
  
    "Al, that's terrible," Sam said, laughing despite himself.   
  
    "I thought so too," his friend was really getting into the story now, "so I asked him, I said, 'Hey Willy, don't you feel bad losin' your leg like that?' And he says to me, 'Well there's no use cryin' over spilled milk!'"  
  
    By now, Sam was laughing so hard he almost lost his grip on the wheel. "You know, Al, one of these days--"  
  
    _BANG!_  
  
    Suddenly, one side of his body made violent contact with metal, and for a moment everything was hot white. Not that he had time to even comprehend the impact, as immediately afterward everything was noise and motion. The world tumbled wildly out of control, smashing soft flesh against unforgiving solid, tossing him around at a dizzying speed. His head cracked into something hard, and the world clicked off like a remote.   
  
\-------  
  
    The side of his face felt warm and wet. That was the first sensation. Then came the body-wide fire, more pronounced in his left shoulder, which seemed to pool up into a mounting compression inside his skull. Attempting to move his arms to feel his throbbing cranium, he confusedly found his left arm didn't seem to function. It simply hung limp above him. Above him? Bizarrely, some invisible force was holding both limbs in the air.   
  
    "Sam? Sam, can you hear me? Come on, buddy, say something!"   
  
    "Mmmmmmmm..."   
  
    "Sam!"   
  
    The voice was coming in muddy. Wrapped in cellophane. Sam's eyes stubbornly fought not to be open. The voice became clearer.   
  
    "...were they doin' drivin' crazy like that? He coulda been killed!"   
  
    Sam grunted in frustration. Damn it, he was going to open his eyes!  
  
    "Sam? You're scarin' me, kid, come on."   
  
    At last, a sliver of light. Green lights. They blinked off and on as the blurry image of his friend waved in and out of view. Only...he was upside down. Was something wrong with the Imaging Chamber? Al had better check it out. He opened his mouth to tell his friend that, but he couldn't think of any words to say.   
  
    "That's it, Sam," Al encouraged him, "come on back." Something seemed to buzz in the hologram's ear, and he looked upward--downward?--in anger. "Damn it, Ziggy, I don't care if there's a problem in the Waiting Room! I'm not leaving Sam!" That's when he noticed something to his left and he breathed a sigh of simultaneous relief and disgust. "Oh good, the other driver's walkin' around. The nozzle." Then to Sam, assuringly, "Don't worry, buddy, help is on the way."   
  
    Turning his neck ever so slightly, Sam's head swam as he still struggled to focus his eyes. Outside the mangled driver's side of the vehicle, dirt hung in the air and balanced on the sky. A pair of soft white shoes crossed the desert ceiling and came to a stop, a Vaseline-smeared figure crouching into view.   
  
    "Wait a minute, what's that?" Al spoke to the figure suspiciously, "Hey! You keep that away from him!"   
  
    Just barely, Sam found his voice. "Wh-What...?"   
  
    He wheezed a surprised gasp as he felt the prick of a needle in his neck. Then warmth, then his eyelids won their battle and everything faded away.   
  
\-------  
  
    The immense pressure in Sam's head pulled him unwillingly back to consciousness, where feeling existed again and his body screamed. Where he was or what was happening, he had no earthly idea. He moaned.   
  
    A gasp. "Sam? Hey, you awake?"   
  
    "Al...?" Sam managed to question through disused vocal cords.  
  
    "Yeah, it's me," Al sighed with relief. Sam still couldn't see him.   
  
    "Why's my head feel big...?" His words were slurring. He felt distant again.   
  
    "You've got a concussion, kid."  
  
    "A wha...?"   
  
    "A con--never mind. I hate to tell you this, but we're in deep trouble!"   
  
    "Stop shouting..." Sam grumbled and closed his eyes. He just wanted to fall asleep again.   
  
    "Don't go back to sleep, Sam! Sam! Hey, you leave him alone!"   
  
    "Susan?" It was a new voice. A female voice. A gentle hand caressed his cheek, and he cracked open his eyes just enough to see who it was. Blonde hair, pale skin, a fairytale face with tiny cracks from age. She smiled softly with powder pink lips. "Don't worry. Everything's going to be okay. I'm taking care of you."   
  
    Good, then he could rest. Al didn't need to worry. He shut his eyes again and drifted off.  
  
\-------  
  
    It was a long time before Sam finally came back, his mind more aware but his body in no better shape. He was lying on something soft. Was he in a hospital? That would explain why he felt so wrecked.   
  
    His itchy eyes opened again to take in his surroundings, first falling on a rotten wood ceiling. His brows knitted in confusion. He'd never visited a hospital with a ceiling like that. So where was he? He moaned and tried to sit up, only to be rewarded with an agonizing pain in his shoulder and another dizzy spell that sent him right back down.   
  
    Al leaned in over him, concern etched into his tired features. "Hey, kid. You with me?"   
  
    "I think so..." Sam answered (almost assuredly), leaning back onto his pillow.   
  
    "Jeez louise," Al breathed with relief, "We've been really worried about you, Sam! Don't frighten us like that."   
  
    Like what? "What happened...?"  
  
    A pause. His friend cocked his head and rubbed at his ear nervously. "Uh, well, you were in an accident. Someone rammed into you goin' god knows how fast, set your car to spin cycle."  
  
    A car accident? Sam couldn't remember. The pounding in his head slammed back any attempt to recall it. "Ugh...how bad is it...?"   
  
    "Uhhh, well, not as bad as you'd think!" Al said upliftingly, a little too loudly for Sam, "According to Ziggy, you've got a serious concussion and a dislocated shoulder, and I can see there you've got a pretty nasty gash on your noggin," he waggled his finger toward Sam's temple, "but, uh, that's the major stuff. Considering the damage to that car, it's a miracle you're alive! You shoulda seen it from the outside; it looked like crumpled up tinfoil! But this," he waved toward him dismissively, "it's nothing really. Heh, a day or two in the hospital and you should be good to go!"   
  
    "Yeah, I feel swell..." Sam said sarcastically as he blinked to make the room stay still. He frowned. "Wait a minute, why am I not at the hospital? Where am I...?" He managed to lower his chin and get a better look at his location. The walls were in the same condition as the ceiling, the wood old, worn, and dotted with scuff marks. But the room was strikingly bare. Other than the small bed he was lying on, all he could see was a chair and a tiny bedside table. The only light came from the moon and the stars as they shone through the small, barred window next to him. Definitely _not_ a hospital.   
  
    Al was evasive. He shifted his weight. "Uhhh, you're about 40 miles out from where you had the accident. Give or take a few."  
  
    "Where?" Sam repeated.   
  
    "In, uh...in the middle of the desert."   
  
    "What?" Sam lifted his head in surprise, only to wince and lay down again. "Why?"   
  
    "It was the other driver, Sam," Al informed him, glancing with anxious suspicion toward the door, "After she hit you, she gave you somethin' and took you to this shack in the middle of nowheresville. Why, we dunno. Ziggy's tryin' to figure out who this woman is. Not to mention, we've still got zippo on the girl you leaped into. We're flying blind at this point."   
  
    "The woman..." Sam had a vague recollection of seeing her after he had been brought here. He squinted as he tried to remember. "She, um, she acted like she knew me..."   
  
    Pressing a couple fingers to his lips, Al peered at the wall thoughtfully. "Maybe she does. Next time she comes in, try to get her talking; we can narrow things down if we get a name." He tapped his temple. "Don't be afraid to play up your head injury."  
  
    "That won't be a problem..." Sam said dizzily.   
  
    "The way you are, and way out here in the desert, you're not gonna make it very far on your own. Somehow you gotta convince her to get you to a hospital." Al turned his eyes away and rubbed the back of his head. Nervously, he glanced at the bed. "Before things, you know...get worse." He was oddly soft-spoken, slightly distracted. Just then the handlink shrieked, causing Sam to shut his eyes tightly. The awful noise was just one more aggravation to his headache. Even his eyeballs hurt right now.   
  
    When he looked out again, Al was shoving the handlink into his pocket and squirming antsily. He seemed to be debating sharing information, which meant something potentially tricky had gunked up this already messy leap. Sam silently asked the question with an inquisitive look.   
  
    Al craned his neck. "Sam, uh...I'd be careful what you do on this leap. Not just for your sake, I mean."   
  
    Oh yeah, because he was planning on making things worse for himself. Good advice, Al. "Why?"   
  
    "Because for some reason, you and Dorothy are physically linked. We can't figure it out." Al shrugged and slanted his mouth, mystified.   
  
    "I've bonded with people I've leaped into before," Sam pointed out, perplexed, "Remember Billie Jean?"  
  
    "No, Sam." Al shook his head and pointed at him. "I don't mean you're bonded with Dorothy; I mean she's bonded with _you_. Whatever's happening to you here is affecting her in the Waiting Room. The shoulder, the concussion, she's got all of it too."  
  
    Now Sam's concussion-addled brain was even more confused. He could recall many instances where he'd picked up physical traits from the leapee, but never vice versa. His head hurt too much to be dealing with this kind of new development. He tried to push through it anyway. "Why would what's happening to me be happening to the person in the Waiting Room?"  
  
    "Beats the hell outta me, pal, but here's where it gets weird." _Now_ it gets weird? Al shifted to the other foot. "Nothing we've done to treat her has worked. They gave her loads of painkillers, didn't do a damn thing. But she did conk out when you did." The bewildered crease in Sam's forehead deepened. Al looked down at him uneasily. "She's only affected by _you_. So until you can get some help, Dorothy is in just as much trouble as you are."   
  
    The weight of responsibility fell heavy on Sam's already overburdened shoulders. He wasn't really sure how to take care of _himself_ this leap; now he held another person's well-being in his hands? It would be difficult to deal with under ideal circumstances, but in addition to his injuries, the leap was already handicapped due to lack of information on his apparently nonexistent host. But, then again, he probably wouldn't be in this situation if they had had the information they needed.   
  
    The door unlocked, and he lifted his head slightly. Even minimizing his movement, his injuries suffered for it. Inside came the blonde woman from before, very petite, almost fragile. Her smile was nervous, but oddly warm. "Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."  
  
    Was she _apologizing_ to him? Maybe she felt guilty about the accident...if it was an accident at all. "I was, um...I was up," Sam told her warily, "What happened?"   
  
    "Oh honey..." The woman pursed her lips sympathetically, as if she didn't want to break the news. "You crashed your car and got hurt."  
  
    "Yeah, thanks to you," Al shot at her, narrowing one dubious eye.  
  
    Crossing the room, she sat next to Sam and lifted a wet rag to clean the dried blood from side of his face. Her touch was gentle but firm. "But I'm going to make sure you get better. Don't you worry about that."   
  
    Sam winced when the rag touched his open wound, reflexively grabbing her wrist to stop her. "I'm sorry, but...who are you?"  
  
    Her eyes widened in surprise. "Susan Juniper Wade, don't tell me you don't recognize your own mother!"   
  
    There was that Susan name again. Sam's eyes shifted to signal Al, who took the cue and entered the name into Ziggy's handlink. "I thought my name was Dorothy?"   
  
    With a piteous sigh, the woman gently moved Sam's hand and shook her head. "No, sweetie. You hit your head. Just be patient; it'll come back to you." She dabbed at his temple again, and he gasped at the sting. She tutted. "Oh, poor baby..."   
  
    The strange tenderness was off-putting, to say the least. Sam might've known next to nothing this leap, but he was certain this woman was not Dorothy's mother. But regardless of whether she had purposefully caused the accident or not, she did seem concerned for his health. He licked his lips and hoped that would benefit him. "Listen, uh...Mom. I really need to go to a hospital."   
  
    Smirking knowingly, she continued to clean his wound. "You'll be fine here, Susan. Mothers know how to take care of their daughters."  
  
    "Are you kidding?" Al asked incredulously, "Look at him!"  
  
    Sam frowned. Did she really think everything was okay? "But I need medical attention," he tried to explain, "I mean...someone needs to reset my shoulder, and--AH!" The woman's hands had immediately found their way to his shoulder, causing a shooting pain that made him go rigid.   
  
    "Hey! Watch it!" Al barked.   
  
    Moving Sam's blood-stained shirt aside, she inspected his already-bruising shoulder. Blues and purples highlighted the misshapen skin where the bone jutted awkwardly out of place underneath. She nodded confidently. "I can fix that."  
  
    Sam tensed up with alarm, "No," he said hurriedly, "Th-That's okay. I'd really rather have a doctor look at it. So if we could just--AH!" Without warning, she'd taken hold of his wrist and lifted up the arm, and spots danced in front of his eyes.   
  
    "I'm sorry, baby. This'll only hurt for a moment." She tightened her grip on his arm and prepared to push up.   
  
    "No!" Sam shouted urgently, eyes wide, "No, not that way!" Luckily, she stopped. She knit her brows in confusion. "I, uhh...read about it in health class," he quickly covered, gritting his teeth.  
  
    "Oh. Then how...?" She began to twist his arm curiously, and he threw his head back and sucked in a breath.   
  
    "Let him go! What're you, crazy?!"   
  
    "Okay okay, STOP!" Sam commanded. She did, and Sam gasped in relief. If she insisted on doing this, he was going to make sure she did it correctly. She could do permanent damage to his shoulder. "Okay...okay...um...hold my arm away at a...at a 90 degree angle." Listening intently, she moved his arm, and he fought off a wave of nausea. "Ah...Alright, now...now slowly pull it down." She pulled, a little too quickly, and he yelled again.   
  
    "Sam!"  
  
    As rough as it was, Sam felt a satisfactory pop as his shoulder fell back into place. The pain immediately began to lessen and he blew out a deep breath. He didn't prefer the method, but he'd be lying if he said the reset wasn't a relief.   
  
    "Sam, are you okay?"   
  
    Eyes closed, Sam gave a small nod. The woman brushed his forehead. "See? I told you. I'm the only care that you need. And right now, you need to rest. It's way past your bedtime."   
  
    Frustrated and impatient with pain, Sam inhaled deeply before opening his eyes. "I really need to--hey!" Too late, he felt her stick the needle in his arm. "What did you give me?"   
  
    Providing no real answers, she stroked her hand through his hair affectionately. "Shh, it'll help you sleep."  
  
    "Don't wanna sleep..." he argued, but he knew it was pointless. Already, his eyelids were starting to droop.   
  
    "You rest now. You'll feel better in the morning." With that, she kissed him on the forehead and exited. He tried to watch her leave, but his eyes began to blur. The room was swimming again.   
  
    "Aaaal...?"  
  
    His friend waved into view. "Just hang in there. We'll figure out how to get you out of here. I promise!"   
  
    Soon, Sam hoped sleepily. Very soon. With Al's last word, the drug pulled him under.


	2. Chapter 2

    It was hot. Much too hot. An oppressive heat enveloped itself around Sam like a thick syrup, and he struggled his way through it in the darkness. It was difficult to breathe. The warmth got closer and closer, and he knew if he didn't get out soon he'd be incinerated in flames.  
  
    There it was ahead of him. A pinprick of light in the pitch black. He battled his way toward it, the heat constricting him tighter and tighter, hand outstretched toward his escape, and then--  
  
    Gasping, he broke the surface. The lungfuls of air came in too fast for his parched throat, sending him into a coughing fit, each hack pounding into his throbbing head like a hammer. When at last the coughing receded, he moaned lowly and placed his hand over his eyes.   
  
    Awareness came back slowly. He was still in bed, still in that room. Daylight streamed in through the window and onto the bed, but what time it was he couldn't be certain because his aching eyes couldn't look out at the moment. The direct beam of sunlight brought with it added warmth to the already unbearable burning emanating from within his body. And the air and the sickness were exacerbated by the lingering effect of the drug, which made his eyes bleary and his mouth dry.   
  
    The doctor inside told him it could be a deadly combination. The high desert temperature and the fever left him covered in sweat, and he couldn't afford to lose any more moisture with nothing to drink.   
  
    Before it gets worse, Al had said.   
  
    If there was one positive, his shoulder, though sore, was at least in better shape. He no longer felt needles down his arm, and he was able to move the appendage now. And the aching in his head, while still agonizing, was at least allowing him some clearer thought. If he could get himself up, he could at least try and find some water around here.  
  
    Closing his eyes and counting to three, he heaved himself into a sitting position. Much too quick. A white lightheadedness made him suddenly veer sideways into the wall. His stomach churned and threatened to displace more precious fluid from his body.   
  
    "Oh boy..." Sam breathed, his cheek resting against the wood. It smelled of dust. "Too fast...too fast..."   
  
    He'd rest here for a moment. The distance to the door wouldn't seem so vast when he opened his eyes again.   
  
    The sound of the Imaging Chamber reached his ears.  
  
    "Uh, hey there, Sam." Al sounded sympathetic. Quiet.   
  
    "Morning..." Sam croaked. He huffed. "Or...whatever time it is there..."  
  
    "Heh, that's a good one." Not really. Al's footsteps shuffled closer. "Jeez, you're soaked. You look slicker 'n a couple lady wrestlers covered in canola oil."   
  
    "Not funny..." Sam cracked open one fever bright eye. As lousy as he felt, he still managed a glare.  
  
    Al gave a tight grin in response. It melted away as he got back to business. "You'll be pleased to know we did manage to finally get some information out of Ziggy. Leave it to the mechanical princess to arrive late to the party." He shot a glance up at the Imaging Chamber ceiling. "Anyway, we had her look up the name Susan Wade."  
  
    "And?"  
  
    "And what she found was an obituary." Now at attention, an alarmed Sam opened both of his eyes and met his friend's grim gaze. "Don't worry, it's not you. Susan Wade was killed in 1979 after her boyfriend made the genius decision to slam back a few drinks before getting behind the wheel." His eyelids lowered in disgust. "Her mother is Deborah Wade; that's the woman who kidnapped you."  
  
    "And for some reason, she thinks I'm her daughter?"   
  
    "Well take a look." Sam glanced over at Al, who pulled the handlink out of his navy blue jacket and keyed in a few buttons. The bright block of Jolly Ranchers projected a holographic image above it, two pictures of two blonde girls. Al pointed at one. "That's Susan." His finger slid over to the other picture. "That's you. Spitting image, don't you think?"   
  
    No kidding. Though both girls were distinct enough to tell apart, there was no denying that Dorothy and Susan bore a striking resemblance. That only opened up more questions. Sam furrowed his brows. "But she knows she's dead...doesn't she?"  
  
    "Evidently, she hasn't accepted it," Al said dryly, inclining his head toward him, "So now you're Susan."  
  
    "I don't get it. If Deborah Wade thinks of me as her daughter, why would she cause another accident, drug me, and refuse to take me to the hospital?"   
  
    Al thought for a moment before an idea struck him. "Susan was in a coma for a week before she died. Maybe Deborah blames the doctors for not saving her," he guessed with a shrug.   
  
    "She's recreating it," Sam concluded, "She wants to save her this time." To be her daughter's hero. In some twisted way, it made sense. He couldn't help but feel sorry for her. He wouldn't know what he'd do if someone he loved had been taken away in such a pointless act.   
  
    "Some hero," Al said coldly. While unwrapping a cigar, he continued, "In 1982, Deborah Wade is convicted of the kidnapping and assault of Mary Jameson."   
  
    "Who?"   
  
    "That's you."  
  
    Face contorted in bewilderment, Sam managed to turn his head toward Al. "First I'm Dorothy, then Susan, and now Mary? How hard did I hit my head?"   
  
    "Ziggy had a _blonde moment_ ," Al's eyes rolled sideways with contempt, "She didn't check the records outside of Terrell County. Turns out there _is_ a Dorothy Roland from the next town over, only her real name is Mary Jameson. She and her mother moved out to the middle of nowhere and had their names changed after her abusive, waste of space stepfather locked her in a closet and knocked her around for three days." His jaw tightened angrily as he thought of what he'd like to do to the monster who would treat someone like that. "No wonder she shut down in the Waiting Room." Sighing piteously, he shook his head and took a drag of his cigar.   
  
    Sam shuddered. Poor girl. She'd escaped that hell, only to find herself in _this_ situation. And now she was in some alien space in the future, with injuries that can't be treated or explained, and locked in one room? To her, it must be no better than the closet.   
  
    Another thought occurred to Sam. "Hang on, you said Deborah Wade was convicted of kidnapping and assault. So Dorothy--Mary--didn't die."   
  
    Cagily, Al craned his neck and scratched his cheek. "Uhhh, no, she doesn't die..."  
  
    "So how did she get out?"  
  
    The hologram blew out a deep breath. "Well, Deborah works at a vet's office, and they started to notice the tranquilizers going missing and got suspicious. So they reported it and the police tailed her here." He hesitated. "That's...five days from now."  
  
    "Five days?!" Sam repeated in shock. He blinked back a wave of dizziness and clutched his upset stomach.   
  
    "By then, Mary had become a complete basket case." Eyes narrowed, Al shoved his hands into his pockets. "She never recovered; to this day she's still living in a psychiatric unit." His thoughts were going somewhere he didn't want them to go. He focused a furious stare at the floorboards.   
  
    "Then I need to get out now," Sam's voice was laced with self-reproach, "before she has to go through anything else because of me." He hung his head tiredly. Why did the door seem even farther now?   
  
    Glancing upward, Al's expression became softer. "Aw, Sam, this isn't your fault. None of this was in your control," he assured him. Then, tentatively, "But, um...a word of advice?"   
  
    "Yeah."  
  
    "I'd watch yourself here, because anything you do can change history so that she never got rescued."   
  
    So that _he_ never gets rescued.   
  
    Hands crawling along the wall like a spider, he pressed his weight against it and pushed himself off of the bed. The room tilted unstably.   
  
    "Sam, what're you doing?" Al asked, nervously stepping up beside him, "You can't try and hoof it; there's _nothing_ out there for miles. You're in the middle of the Chihuahuan Desert; you'll end up beef jerky!"   
  
    "I know that, Al," Sam shot back irritably, wiping the sweat from his eyes, "But I need to find some water..."   
  
    "Oh. You sure you can walk?" Al hovered protectively close to him, as if he could catch him if he toppled over. It made him feel more useful than he really was.   
  
    "I'm gonna try my best..." Hugging the wall closely while being encouraged by his friend, Sam began to close the distance to the door. It wasn't exactly a speedy pace, and there were one or two close calls where he nearly fell over, but he was doing better than he thought he would. At last, his hand grasped the knob.   
  
    Beneath his fingers, it turned on its own. The door pulled away, and he careened forward into Deborah Wade's arms.   
  
    "Oh sweetie!" she gasped with concern, "What on earth are you doing out of bed? Look at you, you're burning up!" Pulling his arm around her neck, she led him back to the bed and eased him down into a sitting position. "You just stay right here, missy."  
  
    "I need water..." Sam implored.   
  
    "Of course. You just wait here." Susan held up a halting finger before exiting into the next room. She re-entered with a little red cooler, pulling out a large water bottle.   
  
    To Sam, it was like seeing a heavenly light and hearing a choir of angels, and he licked his lips with anticipation. He reached out to meet her halfway, gulping down the water greedily. Oh god, it felt great.  
  
      While Sam was drinking, she reached into the cooler and retrieved a bowl of soup. Both the bowl and the spoon she grabbed with it were plastic. "That's it, drink up. Now I know you must be starving, and there's nothing that makes the sickies go away faster than chicken noodle soup!" She grinned cheerily.  
  
    Sam paused, glancing warily at her from over the bottle.   
  
    "I think he's a little more than sick, lady," Al commented obviously, "It's gonna take more than soup to heal this ouchie."   
  
    She took off the lid, handed Sam the soup, and his stomach grumbled at him. Well, might as well take advantage of the offer. It wasn't bad. Clearly homemade. Deborah eagerly watched him eat. She cared about him like her own daughter; he could see that even if he didn't know what he knew. If she had that much love in her heart, he must be able to reason with her. He stopped with another spoonful on the way to his mouth. "Deborah...please take me to the hospital."   
  
    "Deborah?" she questioned with a laugh, "Why so formal all of a sudden? You don't call me Mom anymore?"  
  
    "No," he said gently, expression full of empathy, "Because I'm not your daughter."  
  
    "Ah, Sam..." Al cautioned him.   
  
    Deborah chuckled and shook her head. "Fine. Have an attitude. I won't blame you because I know you don't feel well."  
  
    "I'm not your daughter," Sam repeated more firmly, "My name is Dorothy Roland, and I have a mother who's probably really worried about--"  
  
    "That's enough out of you," Deborah cut him off, taking the unfinished soup from his hands and beginning to pack up, "You can stop lying, young lady."  
  
    "I'm not lying," Sam insisted. He knew he needed to be bluntly truthful to get through to her. The sooner she accepted her daughter's death, the sooner he'd get to a hospital and leap out. He pursed his lips consolingly and tried to explain. "Your daughter Susan is dead."  
  
    "No--"  
  
    "She died in a car accident two years ago," Sam pushed on over her protest, "I'm sorry, but--"  
  
    "NO NO NO!"   
  
    Without warning, she slapped Sam hard across the face.   
  
    "Hey!" Al shouted furiously, taking an urgent step forward.  
  
    Sam simply sat there in surprise, hand over his stinging cheek. The physical outburst had come unexpectedly and wildly out of proportion. Even stranger than her 180, however, was her immediate spin back. Deborah's scowl shifted into a smile as if it had never happened, and she moved his hand to stroke his cheek affectionately. "You're sick, baby. You're imagining things."   
  
    A pause. Sam hesitated before speaking again quietly. "I'm not--"  
  
    "Now, I want you to be on your best behavior while I'm gone," Deborah told him, placing the empty water bottle into the cooler and packing up, "I have to go to work, so I might not be back for a while."  
  
    "You're just gonna leave me here?" asked Sam with disbelief.   
  
    She stopped in the doorway, giving him the look of an exasperated parent. "I'll be back. Don't fret." She blew him a kiss. "Mommy loves you!"  
  
    "Wait!" Too late. The door closed. Sam scrambled to his feet, faster than he had been able to move since he'd arrived, fueled by sheer determination. His weight fell onto the door, but he found himself immediately stopped by an insurmountable obstacle.  
  
    "Sam?"  
  
    Sam looked toward Al, mouth agape. "She's locked me in."   
  
    He jiggled the knob uselessly, but of course it wouldn't budge. This gave way to frustration, and Sam kicked at the door heatedly. Once. That's about all he could muster without losing his balance. Growling in anger, he unthinkingly slammed his bad shoulder into the door in an attempt to ram it open. Immediately, deafening pain sent him hollering.  
  
    "Don't hurt yourself, Sam!" a concerned Al warned him. Sam swore under his breath. "Conserve your energy. Don't worry. We'll come up with something." Al didn't sound so sure. His eyes shifted around the room nervously.  
  
    Now what? Sam pressed his forehead exhaustedly onto the door. This was going to be a lot harder than he'd thought. As he'd find out later, this was going to be one of the hardest leaps he'd ever had to endure.   
  
    Deborah didn't return for three days.  
  
\-------  
  
    There was no singular moment when Sam came to the realization that he was going to be alone for three days, just the slow crawling of time that gradually shriveled his stomach into coal. Well, not alone. There was Al. But he couldn't help him. He would pop in and out, whenever Sam was awake, and try to pass the time with stories or jokes. They had no other options when Sam was too weak to break his way out, and even if he could, he'd find himself in a harsh, unforgiving landscape, running on borrowed time.   
  
    Borrowed time which he was currently using, in a slightly less harsh environment. There was no air conditioning, no power as far as he could tell, and the heat came down on him like a slowly lowering ceiling. His body cried out with thirst, his lips cracked to the point of bleeding, his thoughts haunted by the specter of Deborah holding that large water bottle. And through all this his fever continued to fester, sending him in and out of consciousness.   
  
    He began to wonder if Deborah was coming back at all. If he hadn't sealed his fate already.   
  
    It gave him excessive time to think. About all of the wrongs he hadn't put right, about how many wrongs he'd committed himself. If he'd done all he could for the people he loved. No. The answer was always no.   
  
    About Mary in the Waiting Room, slowly withering away along with him, surrounded by strangers with blinking clothes and brightly colored suits. Locked in her closet.   
  
_I'm sorry_ , Sam thought, _I don't know how, but I'll get you out of this._    
  
    His stomach lurched. Before he had time to keep it down, he had expelled whatever contents were left over the side of the bed. His muscles started to cramp at the loss of more body fluid. The air now rank with the smell of sick, he rolled onto his back and tried to shut out his senses. He wasn't sure how long he was laying there; time didn't have much meaning.   
  
    At some point, Al must have arrived. "You awake, kid?"  
  
    "Yeah." Eyes kept shut, Sam's voice cracked from his burning throat, corroded from dryness and stomach acid.   
  
    "How you holdin' up?"   
  
    "Awful."  
  
    "Ah. Yeah. Don't know what I expected." Al went silent. It was unusual for him to sound so solemn; his last visits he'd been cheerily trying to distract Sam from his situation. Had he given up on him already?  
  
    "Not coming back now...is she?" Sam knew it. He just knew.  
  
    "Of course she's coming back!" Al's voice was more resilient now, a rallying the troops tone, "We got the history here, remember? Mary Jameson is still rescued, same as before. And whenever Deborah comes back, we'll figure out how to get you out of here that much sooner. Come on, Sam, don't let yourself think that way."   
  
    He was just so _tired_. He wearily allowed his eyes to drift halfway open, taking in the sight of his friend. In contrast to his encouraging words, Al was plainly worn out too, a five o'clock shadow beginning to form, the wrinkles of his face deepened from anxiousness and, evidently, something that was stuck in his craw. The Italian glared at the wall and tapped the handlink against his thigh.   
  
    "What happened...?" Sam croaked.  
  
    "Ah it's nothin', just some baloney Ziggy's been tryin' to feed me..." The handlink whirred and Al shoved it into his pinstriped pants with annoyance.  
  
    "Tell me."  
  
    Al's eyes shifted over to Sam tentatively. Sam waited. The hologram let out an exhausted sigh and his shoulders sagged. "Ziggy has this...uh, theory, that you aren't supposed to escape."   
  
    "Huh...?"  
  
    "I know! It's nutty!" Al leaned to his right and shuffled to the side. "She thinks that the reason you and Mary are physically linked is because this is something that you _both_ are supposed to experience. That this was supposed to happen to Mary, but you've got something that she doesn't. It's a load of crapola." He made a disgusted noise and waved the theory away.   
  
    Nutty, right. Ridiculous. That he'd be leaped in purposefully so he could suffer. That this was fated to happen to Mary no matter the timeline. No one deserves to...  
  
    "No one deserves to have something like this happen to them. You can't tell me that God, Time, Fate, Whatever, actually wants this for her. Or for you." Al shoved his hands into his pockets and concentrated unnecessarily deeply on the bars of the windows. His mind was clearly elsewhere.   
  
    In Vietnam.   
  
    It just dawned on Sam. The distant looks, the uncomfortable shifting, the eagerness for a distractible story. He hated himself for not thinking of it before, for being too wrapped up in his own problems to think of how this must affect Al. To be reminded of the worst years of his life and not being able to help him out of it. Sam realized Al was trapped here too.   
  
    "I have a question..."   
  
    "Shoot, kid." His focus was still on the bars.   
  
    Sam was serious. Deadly serious. "You really meet a guy named Hopscotch Willy...?"   
  
    Al glanced over his shoulder at him, at his friend's grave stare. Suddenly, his face cracked with a laugh, and Sam's mouth wearily quirked up into a small grin.   
  
    Chuckling softly, Al shook his head. "No, Sam. I made him up."   
  
    "I knew it."   
  
    All of a sudden, Al had a lot more wild stories to tell. He stayed with Sam until he fell asleep.   
  
\-------  
  
    The Imaging Chamber slid shut, and Al immediately retreated into his private quarters for some time alone. Or, as he'd told an embarrassed Gooshie, so he could play some pocket pinball. Then he was sure to be left alone unless there was an emergency. No one liked to give the Project Director blue balls.   
  
    Throwing his yellow suit jacket onto the bed, he slumped down into his recliner and buried his face in his hands.   
  
    He was not okay. Not in the slightest. Every new trip into the Imaging Chamber felt like walking barefoot across broken glass, into a wall of flame. Or some other melodramatic metaphor. Point is, he didn't look forward to going back to that shack and seeing his friend looking like road kill. He didn't like that he knew exactly how hot it was, how much it stank, how it felt to be sitting in your blood and filth for days. That Sam knew what it felt like now. If it weren't Sam he wasn't sure he could go back there, but for the kid, well...he could walk across some broken glass.   
  
    But god, he hoped Sam made it out in one piece.   
  
    And now, good lord, Beeks was wanting to talk to him about it. _Beeks_. No thanks. He'd experienced enough of this psychiatry junk and frankly, it was a tired old road. Talking about it hadn't fixed him in nearly thirty years, so why bring it up now? It was what it was. He'd manage like he always did. Besides, this wasn't about him. He wasn't the one trapped in 1981 with no one to help him, at the mercy of some loon with the gall to call herself a mother.   
  
    Sam was the one in trouble. Al was just a broken record who had collected too much dust.   
  
\-------  
  
    Sam knew he had a couple routes of escape for when Deborah came back. He had a lot of time to consider them. One was to overpower her and take her vehicle, an option with an already low percentage of success that shrank more and more as time went on. He wasn't in the proper shape for a physical altercation, even with a small woman like her, and his driving skills were up for debate at this point too. So that left the second, more reliable option, which remained convincing her to drive him to the hospital.   
  
    He'd seen the results of being truthful to her. If he tried it again, she'd shut him out. The odds of her accepting Susan's death were even lower than his odds of winning a fight with her. So instead...he had to become Susan. It left a bad taste in his mouth, but he knew his survival wasn't the only thing at stake. Not that he needed much more motivation, because he couldn't take much more of this misery.   
  
    The sound of footsteps roused him from his sleep. The door unlocked, and Deborah peeked inside. "Hello, angel. Mommy's back."   
  
    He blinked groggily, somehow pushing his shaking arms into moving him into a sitting position. "H-Hi, Mom..." He gave her a small smile.   
  
    "There's my little girl," she beamed happily, "You look better already!"   
  
    "I feel better..." Sam lied. He was sure he didn't look any better either.   
  
    The sight of the red cooler made him perk up. That meant food and water. By now, his dry mouth was cotton and his stomach had gone past growling into a dull ache. No matter what she'd done, he was happy to see her right now.   
  
    Another water bottle, another bowl of soup. The bottle was slick in his eager fingers. He choked as he tried to swallow too fast, the liquid dribbling down his front and sizzling off of his heated skin. When he broke for air, he let out a long sigh of relief.   
  
    Deborah looked down her nose at him in a teasing scold. "You had me worried, Susan. All this talk about being someone else. About leaving me."   
  
    Sam was already digging into the bowl of soup. "I don't...wanna leave you, Mom," he said carefully, "In fact...I think you should take me home."  
  
    The woman gave him a sideways glance. "Oh yeah?"  
  
    Sam nodded. He swallowed another spoonful. "But we should stop in town first...to pick up some things. To take care of me, I mean." He could make his escape then. Someone else would help him from there.  
  
    Susan mulled it over, a grin creeping up on her features. "We'll see. First you need to build up your strength. Then we'll talk about taking you home."  
  
    Sam's friendly face faded. "But--"  
  
    "Don't you 'but' me, missy," she chided him, "I know you're young and you think you're invincible, but you need to rest before you run. I love you, honey."  
  
    "I...love you too, Mom. That's why I want to go home."  
  
    "You will," she assured him, gathering up his empty bowl and bottle, "In the meantime, you've made quite a mess here." She eyed the vomit like he was a small child who hadn't put away his toys, "I'm going to get you some fresh sheets and clean up a little." And she was gone again.   
  
    Sam sat there, dumbstruck. It hadn't been much of a plan, but it was the only good one he had, and she'd immediately shot it down. This was it. She was never going to let him leave. He'd be stuck here until it was too late for Mary, and it was already too much for him. The food and water had renewed a small portion of his strength, but how far would that take him? What the hell was he going to do?   
  
    "Sam!" Al's urgent voice caused him to jump. His friend was leaning in closely, hands flailing toward the door. "You gotta get over there! Quick quick quick, before she comes back!"   
  
    "Wha...what're you talking ab--?"  
  
    "It's unlocked! She left the door unlocked, now move your keister!"   
  
    Hope stirred within Sam and lit a fire. Maybe he had more strength on reserve than he originally thought. He wasn't going to squander away the small window of time this slim stroke of luck afforded him. Adrenaline pushed him forward. Freedom-bound legs staggered their way to the door--  
  
    --and it opened. Good god, it opened. A rare smile touched Sam's chapped lips as he breathed a sigh of relief. Someone was watching out for him after all.  
  
    "You can celebrate later, kid." Sam jumped when Al was suddenly on the other side of the door, peering around them as his lookout. "She won't be gone forever. The van's this way!" He began to march toward the front door.   
  
    "Wait..." Sam furrowed his brows, his stomach sinking, "The keys..." There was no way he could get them from her.   
  
    "We'll hot wire it, Sam; I'll show ya how. Now go go go!" Al wildly gestured for him to follow, disappearing through the door. Duh. If anyone knew how to hot wire a car, it was Al. Sam had to trust him; he was too sick to be thinking straight. The knot inside him loosening, he did his best to walk a straight line behind him.   
  
    The wall of thick desert heat stopped Sam in his tracks for a moment, his churning stomach threatening to get rid of his soup. But once the physical reaction passed, his spirits lifted when he saw the van parked just outside the small, dilapidated shack he'd been calling home the past few days. His shoulders relaxed as a small amount of weight was lifted. His escape. He was getting out!   
  
    Beyond this place, there was nothing as far as the eye could see. Simply browns and golds and dots of green; measureless, cloudless sky stretching the length of it. The air bounced along the ground in waves. Even if he'd been in peak physical condition, walking that and surviving would be a miracle.   
  
    The van was unlocked. This seemed humorously logical to Sam. Because why would she bother? Was someone going to steal it all the way out here?   
  
    As a matter of fact, someone was. Sam fell heavily into the front seat and wiped the sweat from his eyes. Keeping a watchful eye on the shack, Al began to coach him quickly on how to get this clunker going.   
  
    As Sam was following instructions, he felt himself begin to slip into autopilot. Despite his excitement, his reserve energy had rapidly burned out, and a bleary fog inched its way over him. Now was not the time for his body to fail him. With worry, he hoped he could push himself long enough to get to safety. The car started to lose focus, and he blinked and shook his head.   
  
    His limbs felt very heavy. Unusually so. Like gravity had suddenly doubled its strength. Every move became more and more of a struggle, even simple things like using his hands, which only made him clumsy and lengthened the process. Thousand pound weights tugged his aching muscles downward, and he shook as he tried to follow Al's instructions.   
  
    At last, he had to take a break. His arms slammed down beside him and he slumped into the seat.  
  
    "What're you doin', Sam? Don't stop; you almost had it!"  
  
    "Something...something's wrong, Al..."   
  
    "What is it?" One step took Al to Sam's side and he leaned in closer, scrutinizing him with concern.   
  
    Sam shook his head. Barely. The gargantuan effort gave him very little. "I dunno...I feel strange..."  
  
    The hologram peered even closer now, taking in Sam's glazing eyes, and a look of panic set in. "Oh no! Sam, she doped you with somethin'!"   
  
    "How...?" She hadn't injected him with anything; he'd remember.   
  
    Then it hit him. The soup and water! She'd laced it! And now that the drug was taking effect, he was rapidly becoming a sitting duck out here.  
  
    He didn't feel tired. Just distant. Maybe he could hide somewhere until it left his system, somewhere she couldn't find him. He didn't have time to weigh his options; his muscles were turning into spaghetti.   
  
    He meant to step out of the car. But the moment his leg hit the ground, his body noodled under him and he collapsed into a heap.   
  
    "You gotta get up! She's coming back any minute now!"   
  
    Lifting his head to spit out some dust, Sam gritted his teeth in annoyance. "I'm...trying...Al..." One hand clawed into the dirt in an attempt to drag himself forward. It was as if his body weighed a ton; an immovable monument. Al chattered on frantically in the background.   
  
    There was the pair of soft white shoes again. Sam swallowed. His massive, Easter Island head refused to lift itself, but he already knew who it was. Because of course, who else would it be? His "savior." The woman who would put him back in that bed he hated to continue suffering for two more days. It still seemed too far. Could he do this again? Could Mary?   
  
    "How could you, Susan?"   
  
    "I--"  
  
    "How could you think of leaving me?!" Deborah's voice was inhuman, loud and full of rage, causing Sam to jump at the severity. Suddenly, he felt something cold and metal placed against his temple. "I was right to test you! How dare you betray my trust?!"  
  
    Sam was instantly frozen. All he could think of was Al's warning that he could change fate at any time, that any moment his luck could run out and he would die out here. All he could think of was one slip of her finger-- _BANG!_ \--and he'd be gone. Deborah was unhinged, but he had thought he'd learned the rules. Her abuse came from neglect and what she imagined were good intentions. He'd thought. He'd never imagined she would threaten her own daughter with a gun.   
  
    "P-Please," Sam whispered, barely containing his hysteria, "Don't shoot. I won't leave you, I--"  
  
    The gun clicked. Sam inhaled sharply. Al was yelling useless threats. "You lying little bitch!" Deborah spat. She grabbed Sam by the neck and shoved his head closer to the gun, burying the barrel into his old wound. He yelled as the weapon dug in deep.   
  
    Al was absolutely furious, placing himself in the woman's face to issue more threats. "You shoot him, I'll jump into that Accelerator and come here to personally plant you in the ground! You hear me?!"  
  
    "I'm the mother! I make the decisions around here! If you're going to leave, it'll be because I send you away!" She yanked Sam's head closer.   
  
    In pain and terror, Sam shut his eyes tightly and shook his head. "No! Please no! I'm sorry!"  
  
    "I didn't hear you!"   
  
    "I'M SORRY!" Sam's dry lip had split open from the force of his yelling. Blood dripped down his chin. God, no. Please don't let this be it!  
  
    After a pause that seemed like eternity, the barrel left his temple. Exhaling loudly, a small cloud of dust kicked up in front of his face. That was close. Much too close.   
  
    Hands wrapped around his wrists as Deborah began not to carry, but drag him back into the shack. Barely able to move, all he could do was sit there as she pivoted him around and pulled him across the dirt; he was like a rag doll in her hands. His already sweat-stained and filthy shirt collected more grime.   
  
    "You need to be taught a lesson, young lady."  
  
    He was back in his rancid-smelling room; she'd made no actual attempt to clean up. Had she been watching him this whole time? Waiting for the drug to kick in so she could have her "gotcha" moment, reassert her authority?   
  
    When his wrists were let go, his arms clunked down to the wooden floor. She hadn't placed him on the bed. Without another word, her mouth a hard line, she exited the room, and Sam watched her curiously. Was she just going to leave him on the floor like this?   
  
    When she returned, she had a hammer and a tin can.   
  
    Eyes narrowed, Al stood protectively between her and Sam. "What're you up to, lady?"   
  
    "Sometimes as a parent you gotta use a little tough love..." Deborah almost sounded as if she were answering him, but of course Al might as well have been talking to himself. Stepping through him as if he were nonexistent, she crouched down beside Sam and set down the tin can.   
  
    Reaching inside it delicately, she pulled out a long nail. She moved Sam's hand outward and twisted his palm up.   
  
    No. She couldn't possibly. Sam's eyes widened. As the horrifying realization began to dawn on both men, Deborah continued her thought as if there hadn't been a pause. "...if you want to keep your children nailed down."   
  
    "Sam!"   
  
    "No, don't!" Sam begged, his gaze never leaving the nail. It was rusted and old. She placed it on his palm. When he tried to move, she kept his weakened arm in place with a gentle squeeze. He tried to bargain. "I'll be good, I promise! You don't have to--"  
  
_WACK!_  
  
    An explosion of agony. Sam screamed and dug the back of his head into the floor. A stream of expletives from Al were drowned out as she continued to bring the hammer down, deeply embedding the nail through his palm and into the wood.   
  
    At that moment, Sam felt himself step aside. From the outside looking in, he could see flashes of another life, the life of a fearful and small individual. The thud of the hammer. A father's fist. Swearing and anger and pain. Mom crying. Him crying. The closet closed in.  
  
    A brief respite. The nail could go no further. But, unfortunately, Sam had two hands. Satisfied with her first job, she took out another nail and moved on to the other.   
  
    Al was shouting something in Italian. His voice could've sent any soldier cowering away. But this tiny blonde woman was unswayed.   
  
    Observing detachedly, Sam could hear himself scream. The nail went in. The closet door locked.


	3. Chapter 3

    The nails were only part of the punishment. Sam was meant to think about what he'd done, and think for a good, long time. So once her macabre handiwork was completed, Deborah collected her things and left him in perceived isolation. What was once thought of as his escape roared to life outside and faded into the distance, taking any further aspirations of freedom with it.   
  
    Sam laid there quite literally nailed to the ground, too much a part of Mary to comprehend his current circumstances.   
  
    Al didn't leave. Ever vigilant, he stood loyally by his friend's side through the night, ignoring the exhaustion that threatened to overtake him. He passed the time by checking the handlink for solutions, but of course Ziggy only had so much to offer. Sometimes he pressed buttons simply to make noise.   
  
    He was worried. Sam had barely spoken to him, seemingly a million miles away. But as the night transitioned into early morning, he could hear increasingly frequent sounds of pain from him. The drug must be wearing off, he guessed. And as the dullness of the drug ebbed away, it would leave behind screaming nerves and broken tendons. He couldn't imagine what was going through his mind right now.   
  
    Actually, he could.   
  
    Sam let out a long hiss through his teeth. Al glanced at him over the handlink. "Hang in there, Sam," he said quietly.   
  
    "I want..." Al's head lifted in surprise upon receiving a response. He almost hadn't heard it, Sam's voice was so meek. The scientist swallowed. "I want to go home. Please...tell me...someone's coming to get me."   
  
    Al clutched the handlink with both hands, sagging with regret. "I told you, Sam. Not for a couple more--" He stopped himself, and he knew that's not what Sam was asking him. His friend was staring at the ceiling helplessly, searching for some small thing to hold on to. He needed something, anything.   
  
    He didn't want the facts. He wanted him to lie. And that, Al was very good at.   
  
    He cleared his throat, straightening his rumpled purple jacket and lifting up the handlink as if reading off new information. "Uh, yeah, Sam. Someone's comin' right now. Any minute now, they're gonna bust down that door and get you outta here. Ziggy says there's a 96% chance you'll leap out as soon as they arrive."   
  
    Sighing with relief, Sam nodded in acknowledgment. It was enough to just hear it.   
  
\-------  
  
    When Sam woke up, Al was gone. His heart skipped a beat. Now he was truly alone. Why had his friend abandoned him now, when he really needed him? He knew he couldn't do anything, but he wanted him here. Just a presence. To remind him that he was, in fact, getting out.   
  
    And he knew he was. He'd known this whole leap...and yet he couldn't shake this feeling that he'd always be trapped. That even when he got out, someone would be lurking around the corner to take him away again. He couldn't understand it. He wasn't Mary, and as soon as he'd finished this leap he would be gone.   
  
    But... _would_ he finish this leap? For all he knew, he hadn't changed anything, and if he had it had been for the worse. Maybe he failed the moment he got himself kidnapped. It could have never been meant to happen at all, and he really was stuck here now, inside Mary. Then what? Would he be this teenage girl for the rest of his life? Or until he could stop himself in the future? He couldn't undo what good he'd done. Too many lives depended on it.   
  
    He didn't know what to do. He just wanted it all to stop.   
  
    The sun had come up by now, casting barred shadows over the dusty floor and across Sam's face. For hours he lay there, having so much time to think yet so little inclination to. He watched the sun's journey through the sky, lifting high and then beginning to lower. It was hypnotic. Static. Hot. His palms were numb.   
  
    An eternity later, the door opened again.   
  
    "Al...?" Of course it wasn't Al. Al had retreated to safety.   
  
    Deborah approached him silently. The needle slipped under his skin, and he was dragged under.  
  
\-------  
  
    Goddamn rain again. He could feel it before he heard it. Drip, drip, dripping onto his head, mingling with the sweat that soaked his clothes. Holy hell, he was going to drown on land, and stuck in this rancid shithole. Enhanced by the rain, the smell of human excrement wafted into his nostrils.   
  
    Al cracked one eye open, glaring at the roof of the hooch as the water dripped down.   
  
    Wait a minute. He tensed up with alarm, struggling against the ropes that kept his arms behind him. This wasn't possible. He'd been repatriated! He wasn't in this place anymore!   
  
    Right?  
  
    "Al..." a soft voice called to him. A familiar voice. An unbelonging voice.   
  
    In the shadows, he could see him. Filthy, bloodied, wasted away, crawling toward him like a zombie. With red hand outstretched, Sam reached for help.   
  
    "Alllll..."  
  
    "SAM!"   
  
    Screaming his name, Al jerked awake. His head spun trying to ascertain his surroundings. His room. He was in his room, in his bed...still in his purple suit.   
  
    Huh? How did he get here? Wasn't he just watching Sam?   
  
    Sam!  
  
\-------  
  
    Furiously trying to fix his hair, Al stormed into the Control Room. One look at how much time had passed, and he'd flipped. "What the hell happened? Why was I in my quarters?"  
  
    Gooshie froze nervously in the middle of his work. "Y-You fell asleep, Admiral Calavicci," he stuttered out, "We had you moved there."   
  
    "I gathered that much," Al said, closing in on the Control Panel. The only thing keeping a distance between them was the programmer's bad breath. "Why didn't anyone wake me up?"  
  
    "We were ordered not to."  
  
    Al's brows knit disbelievingly. "By who?"   
  
    "By me." Al swiveled around to find Verbena standing there, arms crossed and shoes blinking. Despite the death glare he was giving her, her expression remained neutral. "You've been working yourself too hard this leap. You needed the rest."  
  
    "Sam needs me!" Al yelled incredulously, "I can't be wastin' time catching z's!"   
  
    "Sam was unconscious as well. I saw no reason to wake you."   
  
    "And what if Ziggy had found something? I need to be on top of things, Beeks!"  
  
    "Then someone would have woken you up." Her evenness was infuriating. Didn't she care? Well, she cared about picking his brain concerning things that were dead and over, that's for sure. But did she care about Sam? You know, the guy who gave her this job? "But since Ziggy doesn't have anything new, perhaps we can discuss--"  
  
    " _Ahem_." Whew! Al had never been so happy to hear Ziggy interrupt a conversation. "Excuse me, but Ziggy _does_ have something new. You shouldn't talk about me as if I'm not here." The computer sniffed haughtily.   
  
    "What've you got, Zig?" Al asked, a bit too eagerly.  
  
    "I've finally been able to access Mary Jameson's medical records, and I believe Dr. Beckett is about to be in a very distressing situation."  
  
\-------  
  
    Sam was relieved to find himself back in bed. Which meant that, mercifully, he was unconscious when the nails had been taken out of his hands. Fleetingly, he hoped this meant that his captor had decided he'd suffered his punishment. But this leap, he was discovering that if it seemed too good to be true, it was.   
  
    Cautiously, he attempted to flex his aching hands, only to be met with a stinging pain. Attempting to lift his arms to inspect his palms, he found his wrists were bound to the bed.   
  
    Something else wasn't right. He was...cooler. Lowering his chin, he found himself no longer wearing Mary's filthy clothes, but an old nightgown. The fact he'd been changed while he was asleep was disturbing, but not nearly as disturbing as what he noted next. His feet were lifted off the bed, tied high up to boards attached to the bedposts. He frowned in confusion.   
  
    "Sam." Startled, Sam jumped and whipped his head to his left. He winced as he aggravated his sore neck. Al was standing next to him, visage steady but his shifting eyes betraying his worry.  
  
    "Al!" Sam sighed, "I thought you'd left."  
  
    "Sam, explain to me the principle of relativity."   
  
    "What?"   
  
    "Explain to me the principle of relativity."   
  
    "What're you--?"   
  
    The door opened and Deborah made her way inside with a small bag. Mouth tight, she set the bag down and began rooting through it silently. Thoroughly lost, Sam watched her, but he found his view blocked when Al stepped between them. "Don't pay attention to what she's doing, Sam. Just focus on me."  
  
    "Why? What's going on?" Sam was concerned at Al's tone. What was he trying to hide from him?  
  
    Al shifted uncomfortably. "Don't think about it. Just do what I say."  
  
    Despite his friend's efforts to block his view, Sam could see Deborah straighten up with a tool in hand. A tool he recognized and that raised alarm bells. Grasped between her fingers, she carried an old-fashioned speculum. A speculum? What would she..?  
  
    Panic rose in Sam's throat. He turned to Al. "What's happening?"   
  
    "I know why you left me last time," Deborah responded, assuming the question had been directed at her, "It was that damn boy. I warned you about him, but you didn't listen to me. Teenagers are always thinking with their hormones, slipping into the backseat of a car..." Lifting the speculum, she inspected it thoughtfully. "So I think the best way to keep you with me is to remove the temptation."   
  
    Sam's eyes were wide, his body tense, his brain halted in fear. He didn't want to think about what she possibly had in mind. Whatever it was, he was helpless to do anything about it. Again, Al was obstructing his vision.   
  
    "You're not here right now," he told him firmly, "You're with me in the Waiting Room. That's all there is. Now explain to me the principle of relativity."   
  
    "I..." Cold hands slid down his thighs and his eyes flew downward.   
  
    "Sam." He looked up and saw Al watching him determinedly, emotions set aside in a distant reserve, an experienced familiarity speaking his authority. Listen. Do what he says.   
  
    Sam licked his lips. He was not here. He was in the Waiting Room, explaining this to Al. This was simple. "The...the principle of relativity states that--" He gasped as the speculum was inserted through the aura, an uncomfortable confusion at this new sensation. He swallowed, commanding himself to ignore it. "...th-that it's impossible by, uh, by mechanical means TO--" His voice rose as she began to slowly open up the tool. "--t-to say whether, whether we're moving, or, AH, s-staying--"   
  
    Gradually, the pressure began to shift from discomforting to painful. Whether it was from an incorrect size or the woman's lack of experience, it was hard to say. As the clamps stretched further, it became harder for Sam to concentrate.   
  
    "Whether we're moving or staying at rest," he quickly blurted out. His head fell back onto his pillow.  
  
    "Mmhmm. Go on."   
  
    "You would, uh, would ne-EE-d, a f-fixed..." Sam winced. Al waited patiently. "A f-fixed frame of ref-- _oh god_..."   
  
    "A fixed frame of reference, right. Why is that?"   
  
    "B-Bec-cause..." The sun glinted off of something just in the corner of Sam's vision: a scalpel in Deborah's hand. His eyes became huge, his train of thought forgotten. "Please, whatever you're thinking, don't..."   
  
    "Sam, you're not here right now. You're in the Waiting Room," Al insisted calmly, "Talk to me."   
  
    "Al..." Sam's voice shook.   
  
    Deborah fixed him with a stern look over her nose, lowering the scalpel. "You'll thank me for this."  
  
    "I'll be good, I promise!"   
  
    "Sam, look at me!"   
  
    Her hand entered into a violating space, and then the scalpel cut inside. Sam screamed at the sudden excruciating agony, back arched, his limbs tight against the ropes. But his howling fell on deaf ears and ears too far away to help, the mutilation continuing mercilessly. All there was now was Sam and his torture, a scalpel and a mother and a stepfather and a closet. His wrists and ankles bled, and he choked out a sob.  
  
    And Sam went away.   
  
    He was not here right now.  
  
\-------  
  
    Al screamed until his throat was hoarse, but Sam had long since checked out. Damn it, distracting him was the one thing he could do, and he failed at that! What good was he doing Sam at all? He was helpless, hopeless, and, most of all, frightened for him. The sounds coming from his friend were sounds he both knew too well and wouldn't soon forget. The unfathomable horror continued uninterrupted.  
  
    And then Al did something he was immeasurably ashamed of. He shut his eyes tight, and turned away.   
  
    He couldn't watch any more. He could barely stand to hear it. Instinct told him to run away as far and as fast as he could, to any destination, but his heart pulled him back and shackled him to the stricken figure on the bed. He was powerless to do anything more than wait, and listen, and hold back the bile in his throat.   
  
    The screaming stopped, and settled into convulsive weeping.  
  
    "There, there. You'll thank me later."   
  
    The door shut. She was gone. Seconds or possibly hours passed. Slowly, trembling with fear, Al managed to turn himself around.   
  
    Shaking uncontrollably, Sam's head was turned and sobbing into his pillow. Crimson stained the bottom of his nightgown. He didn't say anything, didn't even look at Al.   
  
    And there Al stood, paralyzed, as if his feet had been nailed to the ground also. There were no words.   
  
\-------  
  
    Al made for damn sure he didn't fall asleep this time. Not that he could. He was too furious at himself for letting Sam down on this leap, and too many times. None of this should have happened. They had the time, the resources, and somehow everything had played out exactly as before. And now Mary would...  
  
    Holy hell. Mary. Last night, she would've gone through the same... Holy hell.   
  
    Mercifully, Sam did not have the same trouble falling asleep. The crying quieted down and left behind hours of silence. And Al watched the sun begin to rise from Sam's tiny window, left only with his thoughts.   
  
    Today was the last day. Thank god, it was the last day. Ziggy predicted the police arriving in less than an hour and soon, Sam would be out of there. But it hardly felt he would be rescued at all.  
  
    You never really are.   
  
    A whimper. Al turned his attention back on Sam, who was slowly beginning to wake up. A creak. His head whipped toward the door. It slowly opened, revealing a motionless Deborah on the other side.   
  
    Immediately, Sam was more awake. He gasped and struggled to sit up.  
  
    "Don't worry, Sam," Al assured him, his gaze never leaving the monster in the doorway, "The cavalry's comin' any minute now."  
  
    "No," Sam choked out, "leave me alone..."   
  
    "Just hold on. You'll be..." Al trailed off. There was something...off about the woman today. Gone was her small, maternal smile, her mask of denial, and instead...she was hollow. Dead-eyed. Her eyes were red from crying. Al watched her suspiciously.   
  
    As she made her way inside, she stumbled. Something wasn't right here. When Al got a closer look, he saw her eyes were glazed. She was definitely on something. But what? Al smelled trouble, and he didn't like it one bit.   
  
    There was her grin again, but it was broken. Absent. She sniffed and straightened out her hair with her palms, stopping next to a terrified Sam. "We're in trouble, baby."   
  
    Sam said nothing. The ropes were taut.   
  
    "Mommy's gotten into some trouble...and some men are coming to try and take you away." The police! She must've seen them tailing her. Al filled with renewed hope at the confirmation of Ziggy's prediction. Just a little bit longer, Sam! But no sooner had he felt that slight relief than his heart sank like a stone. Deborah lifted another needle. She blinked away the bleariness behind her eyes. Is that what she had dosed herself with? But why? "So we're going to take a trip together, okay, sweetie?"   
  
    Sam shook his head frantically as she caressed his cheek. Al panicked as he began to put together her plan. They'd changed things. Big time.   
  
    "Don't you dare!" Al screamed.   
  
    Too late. She'd already plunged the lethal dose of tranquilizer into a struggling Sam's arm. Al's fists flew uselessly through her head.   
  
    "Shh, shh, shh, it'll be easy..." Deborah's words were beginning to slur. She crawled onto the bed next to a shaking Sam, wrapping her arms tenderly around him and stroking his hair. "Just go to sleep...Mommy's here...Mommy's here..."   
  
    "H-Help..." Sam whispered. His blinking began to slow as her fingers stopped moving.  
  
    Panicked now, Al was shaking the hell out of the handlink. "Damn it, Ziggy, where are they?! Don't tell me they're coming; Sam needs help _now_!"   
  
    Deborah had stopped moving, but still had a small, haunting smile on her lips. Sam's breath shook as he stared at her, unable to look away, certain of his fate. But soon, his breathing slowed too.  
  
    "SAM! Hang on!"  
  
    The front door slammed open, and several figures rushed inside.  
  
\-------  
  
    Just. In. Damn. Time. Al nearly had a stroke, he was so scared. Now he was still worried to death about Sam, but at least he had a little breathing room. At any rate, he was down to the heart-pounding stage. Sam wasn't out of the woods yet, but the police had managed to get him to a hospital to counteract the drug and treat his other injuries.   
  
    Thankfully, Deborah wasn't so lucky in this history. Seething, Al's biggest regret was not being able to take her out himself. As far as he was concerned, she should've died in that car wreck. His nicest words for her held nothing but contempt. He held no sympathy for someone who would do that to any person, much less a child, and certainly not Sam. Good riddance.  
  
    And now, one forced rest later and with Sam still unconscious, Al waited restlessly for his friend to rouse. He wished he could say it was for unselfish reasons, but assuring him it was okay now was just as much for his own benefit. He needed to know that Sam knew that he wasn't going to die. That that woman hadn't won. Just as Al knew she wouldn't. Not when the kid was the one fighting.   
  
    He really hadn't slept well. Too plagued by nightmares and old faces. But Verbena had insisted in that annoying way that she did, full of irritating common sense and stupid logic, and he was running on empty anyway, so he'd at least made an attempt. That earned him a few hours of half-sleep and a sore back. Now, however, his exhaustion was catching up with him, and he almost nodded off in the chair he'd dragged himself into the Imaging Chamber.   
  
    A loud gasp startled him, and his head jerked up. Sam was sitting up in bed, eyes wild, his gaze darting across the room. No sooner had Al seen him awake than he booked it out of his chair and to the scientist's side. "Sam--" Caught off guard, Sam yelled and jumped back. Al raised his hands innocently. "Hey, you're safe now. It's over."   
  
    Sam was not comforted. Instead, he became even more erratic. Frightened. "G-Go away!"   
  
    Al frowned. "It's just me, Sam." Didn't he recognize him? Upon finding the exit, Sam began to pull clumsily at his IV. The clunky bandages around his hands got in the way. "Hey, don't mess with that! You're okay. Sam, calm down!"   
  
    But he wouldn't listen. The only thing on Sam's mind, it seemed, was getting the hell out of dodge. Jeez, he was going to hurt himself! Before he could get very far, however, two nurses were in the room to stop him. Not that it mattered what they were saying, because Sam was like a small, trapped animal. To him, he was still in that shack, and his only choice for survival was fight or flight.   
  
    Al noticed he had a surprising amount of spunk after everything he'd just endured, but it's amazing what the human body can do when faced with life or death. At first, he attempted to simply run past the nurses, but one of them was able to grab him by the arm. The other arm flew in a fist and managed to clock her on the chin, but the other nurse was immediately pinning his arms behind him.   
  
    "Sam! Cool it!" Al stepped closer but kept a safe distance, why he wasn't sure. He was a hologram, after all. "You're in the hospital, and these ladies are trying to help you. Deborah's not here; you're safe."  
  
    Sam became even more crazed, desperately yanking at his arms and kicking out. Backup arrived, and before long, he was being placed in restraints.   
  
    At this, Al became livid at the staff. He couldn't remain on the sidelines now; he placed himself squarely in the middle of the action. "What're you, nuts? Don't use those things on him! He was just kidnapped, for crying out loud!"  
  
    "I'm sorry!" Sam hollered, closing his eyes, "I'm sorry! I'll be good, I promise! Just don't hurt me! Don't hurt me!"   
  
    Al was feeling more and more absent by the minute. He couldn't stand to see Sam like this. All he had were words, and he wasn't sure any of it was making it into Sam's noggin. Still, he had to try. "No one's going to hurt you here, Sam," he said fretfully, "Please believe me."   
  
    But Sam refused to open his eyes, whispering to himself despairingly, "Go away, go away, go away, go away..."  
  
    What an idiot he was, to think that Sam was safe now. That getting him out was going to solve anything, when he knew it wouldn't. How could he have fooled himself into thinking it would? He supposed he could believe anything if he trusted in his denial enough. But he had hoped Sam was stronger than him, because everything he had witnessed before now told him so. And now...now he was faced with the icy, ugly truth: Sam had fallen apart.   
  
\-------  
  
    In a magnificent explosion, Al's cup smashed violently against the wall of his bedroom. As the water soaked into the carpet, the lights overhead glittered resplendently off of the shards of glass. He was reminded of the obliterated car windows from Sam's accident, sparks of moonlight reflecting off of the dirt road, mingled with scarlet.   
  
    Sam had stopped responding to him--hell, he'd stopped responding to anyone. He was like a some kind of zombie or something--Al shuddered. The zombie Sam from his dream. Al would've taken his violent outbursts to this, because at least then there was some indication that someone was home. Even after Mary's mother had arrived, she wasn't able to get much from Sam. Occasionally he could be heard mumbling to himself, but there was little to no acknowledgement of anyone else. For three days it went on like this, and then the awful inevitable happened: Sam was transferred to the psychiatric unit.

    Al couldn't visit Mary in the Waiting Room. Not knowing how badly he'd let her down, and how little he could do for her.

    They hadn't changed a damn thing. He needed something else to throw.   
  
    " _Ahem_." Al closed his eyes and clenched his jaw in irritation. If Ziggy started in with more of her egotistical bullshit, he swore he was going to start ripping open her panels and cutting her voice circuits. "Admiral Calavicci, you're wanted in Dr. Beeks's office."   
  
    "Tell her I'm busy."  
  
    "As I told Dr. Beeks," Ziggy began condescendingly, "I'm not a messaging service. You'll have to tell her yourself."   
  
    "Just tell her, you self-involved pile of microchips!" Ziggy didn't respond. Great. Now he was getting the silent treatment from her too! He got no respect around here!   
  
    After a few choice words aimed at the ceiling, Al made himself somewhat presentable by hastily throwing on his robe, stomped out of his quarters, and headed straight for Verbena's office.  
  
\-------  
  
    _Clunk-shoom_. The door to Verbena's office slid open and Al marched himself right in. "Alright, Frankenstein, you want to examine my brain, you'll have to pry it out of my cold, dead body!" He noticed he was a little frazzled from his hurry to get here, fixed his robe, then pointed. "I've told you more than once, and I'll tell you again: We're not talking about me! So don't be sending Ziggy to me with little passive aggressive messages, don't ask me to your office like some kind of child, and stop telling me to take naps like I'm 110 years old! I've got a lot bigger, more important things to worry about than decades-old garbage, and you can't make me talk about it, so I won't! I'm tired of talking about me!"   
  
    "Good morning."   
  
    She was infuriatingly serene, her hands folded across her mahogany desk. It was like a friggin' painting. A wood-furnished office, entirely symmetrical, humming with the sound of a small fountain she kept in the corner, and a statuesque angel seated in the middle of it. Huh. Angel, his foot. More like the devil on his shoulder. In contrast to her deceitful calm, here he was looking like moldy old leftovers, unshaven and hair sticking out every which way. Now he wished he'd taken a couple extra seconds to look around before he left his room, because he realized he'd put on two different slippers.   
  
    "Let's talk about Sam."   
  
    Oh. Uh. Eh.   
  
    She motioned for him to take a seat. Begrudgingly, and with as much dignity as possible, he calmly made his way over to the chair in front of the desk.   
  
    "...and you."  
  
    As if his butt had just touched lava, he shot up and started for the door again.   
  
    "Sit. Down."   
  
    Yeesh, she wasn't so tranquil now. Al tensed up. His tongue bitter between his teeth, lips pouted, he slowly turned and creaked down into the chair. He craned his neck and examined her with narrowed eyes.   
  
    "Can I ask what you're doing?" she questioned calmly.  
  
    "Checking for bolts on your neck."   
  
    "Frankenstein was the doctor, not the monster." A wispy smile touched Verbena's lips. Ha ha, very cute. Al huffed and leaned back in his chair. In turn, she leaned in closer. "So."  
  
    "So."  
  
    "Sam."   
  
    "Sam is...not so good."   
  
    "I understand he's quite traumatized over what's happened."   
  
    "Traumatized?" Al repeated disbelievingly, "Traumatized doesn't quite cover it. He's donezo. Gone out to lunch. Do not pass go, don't collect 200."   
  
    "And this has affected you as well."  
  
    Al's eyes bugged out. "Of course it has! Beeks, you should see what that human excrement did to him. Reading about it isn't the same as being there. You don't know what it was like." A pause. "He doesn't sleep much, he makes noises, like he's relivin' it...he barely eats or drinks, because--because that's how she drugged him! And all I can do is watch as she kills my friend from beyond the grave! Hell yeah, I'm affected! I'm scared as hell!"   
  
    "For Sam."  
  
    "No, for Dr. Frankenstein. Yes, for Sam!"   
  
    Verbena never raised her voice. Never moved her hands or betrayed what she was thinking. Al, meanwhile, was steaming. "Why do you think that is?" she asked.   
  
    Al was floored. The answer should've been obvious. "Because I don't wanna lose my best friend. He might've failed the leap."  
  
    "We have no reason to believe he won't eventually leap out," Verbena stated, "Even if he's failed."  
  
    "Maybe. We still don't know." Al was on his feet again, pacing, scratching his stubble. "But that's beside the point. He could've died out there!"  
  
    "Sam's been in physical danger before."  
  
    "She cut him up, Verbena! She nailed him to the goddamn floor!"  
  
    "Tortured him."   
  
    "Yes, tortured him!" Al was fuming, "Listen, stop dancing around it and just say what you mean! You think I'm--I'm projecting something here because of what happened 30 years ago! Right?"  
  
    "Of course you are, Al," Verbena said, betraying some of her exasperation, "It would be impossible not to. But that's not what I'm asking about. I'm asking what you're afraid of."   
  
    "Well I'm, uh..." Al took a moment to catch his breath. He held onto the back of his chair and leaned into it. Verbena waited patiently. Sighing heavily, Al plunked himself back into his seat. "Damn it, Beeks. Don't make me say it." Verbena simply answered with a knowing, almost imperceptible smile. Oh no, she wasn't going to let him off that easy. Defeated, he leaned into his hand. "I'm scared because...because I don't want Sam to become like me. And that's the truth." He slumped down lower into his chair, hoping desperately to disappear.   
  
    And there she had it. That little nugget of truth she'd been digging for the entire time, and Al's bleeding guts laid out for the world to see. Damn this leap.   
  
    "And that's the problem, Al," Verbena explained, finally getting to what she was leading into, "Sam has retreated into Mary to escape reality. I believe that in order for him to leap, he has to acknowledge what was done to him. To begin to heal, he has to talk about it. Maybe you know something about that."   
  
    Ugh. Stupid, hideous logic. Al knew what she was getting at. "How do we get him talking?" he asked, "He doesn't even recognize me."  
  
    "I think he does." Al looked up. Verbena continued. "But he connects you with this traumatic event, so he's shut you out. For whatever reason, Sam and Mary are connected. So whatever Mary couldn't do, Sam apparently can. In the original history, Mary remained unresponsive under hospital care until the present. But maybe something in Sam has the capacity to help her face what's happened."  
  
    "But Sam can't even face it himself. He won't talk to anyone."   
  
    "He'll talk to you."   
  
    Fine, Beeks. You win. The sneaky devil.   
  
\-------  
  
    Al didn't want to be here. Not really. His dislike of hospitals was only further cemented by this leap, and he liked being in the psychiatric wing even less than the rest of it. But for Sam, he was willing to go anywhere. Even if it wasn't all Sam.   
  
    Sam was in a private room. Until he'd completely physically recovered, he was being kept by himself. So when Al stepped through the wall, he found himself experiencing deja vu.   
  
    God, it was just like the shack. A bed. A window. But oddly sterile. Like looking in on Sam's captivity from a whitewashed dream. And in the corner was Sam, huddled by himself and writing on a notepad. He looked like hell. Pale and gaunt, dotted with scabs and yellowing bruises, even worse under the hospital lights than he'd looked in the shack.   
  
    Al stepped softly closer, cocking his head to try and see what he was writing. Nonsense, mostly. Half-finished thoughts and numbers that probably meant something to the scientist, busywork. Sam didn't lift his head, but as soon as Al's shoes stepped into his line of sight, he flinched back.   
  
    Seeing his reaction, Al stepped back. "Just me, Sam. It's Al."   
  
    Still, his head was bowed. He began to write again.   
  
    "I know you remember me. I'm a hard person to forget," Al said lightheartedly, "You're not foolin' anyone with this silent act, you know. I've known you for sixteen years; I've never seen you keep quiet when somethin's on your mind." He chuckled. "Hell, sometimes it's hard to keep you from yakkin'."  
  
    The pencil scraped against the paper.   
  
    Al scratched behind his ear uncomfortably before shoving his hands into his pockets. Jeez, this room seemed small. His eyes wandered the walls. "Uh, Sam...I really need to talk to you. It's important." Silence. He sighed in frustration. "Can you at least look at me or something?"   
  
    Scrape. Scrape. The pencil looped around in a circle. Sam leaned in closer to his work.   
  
    Well. This was going swimmingly. Cripes, he was no good at this. Al rubbed his chin, then noticed his stubble. Huh, he knew he'd forgotten something. He'd at least remembered to put on some actual clothes--a rather subdued reflective blue ensemble. He thought he'd read somewhere that blue was a calming color, maybe in one of Tina's magazines. Whatever might help, he supposed.   
  
    "Jeez, I'm a mess. You know, people at the Project are startin' to think I'm a recluse." He began to walk the length of the room. It was a rather short trip. "This is the first time in days I've changed my clothes. Just haven't felt in the mood for anything. Heh, imagine me with nothing to wear! I'm pretty sure Tina has a smaller closet than I do." He laughed again and stopped at the window. The bright sun brought him only the cool temperature of the Imaging Chamber. "I haven't seen a real sun since this whole thing started. I'm turning into a vampire. Bet Annabelle's really missing me."   
  
    "Who's..."  
  
    Al jumped at the unexpected response. He twisted his head around.   
  
    Sam had stopped writing, but his eyes remained glued to the paper. His voice was soft, trepidatious. "Who's watching...her?"   
  
    "What?" Al blinked. This was the first coherent sentence he'd heard from him in days. "Who's--Oh! Annabelle, who's watching Annabelle? Uh, Tina." Now his laughter was from relief rather than nerves. "Yeah, she's got her shacked up with her other reptiles. I don't really care for all her scary scalies, but Annabelle sure likes it. There's another tortoise there who's got an eye on her." He wagged his eyebrows, followed by a nod. "She really loves it there, Sam. You should see it sometime."  
  
    Sam had set his pencil down. He tugged anxiously at the gauze around his palms. "Al?"  
  
    Al held his breath. It was so damn wonderful to hear his name. "Yeah, kid?"   
  
    "When?" He glanced up from under his hair, and finally those green eyes were looking, really looking, at him again. And something else he hadn't seen in Sam's face for far too long: a sense of hope. This hope made him brave enough to crack open the door just slightly, and now Al had his opportunity to come inside.   
  
    "As soon as you leap home, Sam," Al said encouragingly, "And who knows? Maybe that's the next one."   
  
    Sam lowered his hands from around his knees, lifting his head higher. "What...do I need to do to leap?"   
  
    "Oh Sam...you don't know how great it is to hear you say that!" Al was grinning from ear to ear. For once, this leap was going right! But he wiped away his smile. He knew he was asking Sam a lot. Preparing for a tough discussion, he crouched down to meet his friend at eye level. "In order to leap...you gotta help Mary face what's happened to her."   
  
    Reacting as if he'd just been struck, Sam ducked his head down and hugged his knees, furiously shaking his head. Al could see him retreating.   
  
    "No, Sam, c'mon, don't go away now!" He might be throwing away all of his hard work. Bringing it up was causing Sam to go backwards! He hoped Verbena was right, otherwise Sam could go bye-bye forever. "You've got to face this, Sam! That's the only way you're gonna help Mary and leap out!"   
  
    "No no no no no no..."   
  
    Al shuffled himself closer, and Sam backed away. "I know you think you're alone, kid, but you're not. I know exactly how you feel. When I came back from..." His voice cracked; he stopped at the sudden thickness in his throat. He cleared it and, somehow, maintained his composure. "When I came back from 'Nam...I felt more alone than you could ever imagine. I didn't want to think about it. I didn't even want to be on this planet anymore. Because something like that happens...it's a part of you forever."   
  
    Sam placed his hands on his head, shutting his eyes tight, repeating his mantra as he rocked back and forth. Al didn't back down. He knew he was close.   
  
    "But I didn't let it define me, Sam. Because it's not all of who I am, and it's not all of who you are. And the only way you're gonna be able to move past it is if you remember what you got out of." Their faces were inches apart. Al softened his eyes sadly. "It happened, Sam. I wish it didn't, but it did."  
  
    A pause. Sam's chin quivered, and he sniffed. "If I remember..." He sucked in a breath. "...then I go back there, and I never got out."   
  
    "Kid." Al waited. Sam looked up at him, eyes red. "Getting out is the easy part. It's living the rest of your life where things get hard." Sam listened intently, unmoving. Al could feel himself getting through to him. He swallowed. "But then you realize there are people out there to pull you out, time and time again, because not everyone in this world is covered in dirt and grime, and they won't give up on you. _I_ won't give up on you. And once you learn not to give up on yourself, you won't give up on them either. Face this, and live your life."  
  
    Thinking deeply for a moment, Sam licked his lips and furrowed his brows. Come on, kid. Al felt his internal struggle; he knew how hard this was for him. It wasn't exactly easy for him either. Finally, Sam asked, "Can I do it?"   
  
    Al smiled warmly. "I know you will. Come home, Sam."  
  
    From beneath the tears, Sam's lips actually turned up into a smile. Instantly, the air felt a little less heavy. And although he didn't say it, Al knew that what he meant was thank you. And even further underneath Sam, Mary was saying thank you too.   
  
    Inside, Sam had finally stopped running away. The room was illuminated blue, and he vanished.   
  
    Al got to his feet despite his complaining knees, waiting in the Imaging Chamber for a long moment. He just enjoyed the silence, save for the humming of the walls. Sam was safe. Thank god, Sam was safe. And Mary...  
  
    "Ziggy?"   
  
    "Yesss, Admiral?"   
  
    "What happened to Mary?"  
  
    "Mary Jameson was discharged from the hospital a few weeks after Dr. Beckett leaped out," Ziggy informed him, "She went on to become a counselor for abuse victims, using her personal story as inspiration for recovery, and she's currently ranked one of the best in the country."   
  
    Al closed his eyes. Of course. She was a counselor. This leap had done some good after all. She helped people now. Maybe what happened to her was a fixed point in time, maybe it was always supposed to be this way. Al didn't care, as long as she was free now.   
  
    The Imaging Chamber door shut. A physically and emotionally exhausted Al entered the Control Room. It had been a very, very long leap. Gooshie was at his station as usual, grinning in acknowledgement, and on the other side of the room, arms crossed, stood Verbena. Her lip quirked up.   
  
    Al nodded.   
  
    Although he didn't say it, what he meant was thank you. Thank you, and good night.


End file.
